


Actions Not Words

by SnapDragon88



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-03-01 10:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnapDragon88/pseuds/SnapDragon88
Summary: The 1920's are a volatile time for everyone; a lost generation, whispers of revolution, strikes, depression and a whole host of opportunities to exploit. Tommy Shelby is doing his best to ensure that The Shelby's are at the top of the pile, but he also seems to have developed a sweet tooth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this, as I'm pretty new to the PB fandom, like really bloody green. But I'm enjoying it and I thought maybe other people might like it as well???
> 
> I started writing this after I finished series 2 and had three chapter written before I watched series 3 & 4\. It's not entirely canon but still kind of is, as the central story will run alongside the introduction of an original character to the Small Heath crew.  
> I will cover some difficult themes because life is difficult. But life is also beautiful and ridiculous so I'll throw a bit of that in as well.
> 
> If I'm going to move away from canon at any point I'll be sure to let you know.
> 
> PS: I am only borrowing the Peaky Blinders from their creators and do not claim ownership of anything apart from my own little creation who pops up in the story.
> 
> PPS: Also I have no Beta so any and all mistakes are my own!

Thomas Shelby was hungover. His head felt like it was being caved in with a shovel, the same ones with which he had toiled underground. Rubbing his hand roughly through his hair and over his face, he tried to scrub away the feeling of a night of heavy drinking that had followed his return to Small Heath from London. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until all he could see were white splodges floating in front of him. Nothing for it then he thought but  _hair of the dog_. He reached for the almost empty bottle of rum beside his bed, removing the cork with a thumb, the lid popping off and rolling away under the tangled sheets. Eyeing the bottle warily for a second or two before tipping it to his lips and taking a long hard pull. 30 minutes later, and feeling almost human, his legs are over the side of the bed bare feet hitting the cold floor, as a hiss of air rushes past his teeth, and he's rubbing his face again feeling the beginnings of stubble scratching the palms of his hands. First things first though, a shave.

Tommy is sitting behind his desk an hour later, clean-shaven, hair styled, suit fitted to within an inch of its life, and a steaming cup of tea between his frigid fingers as he waits for the first meeting of the day. A knock on the double doors and they swing open, not bothering to wait for an answer Finn wanders in, he has a stack of paperwork in one hand and an enormous cream cake obscuring his face in the other.  “Where did you filch that from?”

His little brothers' eyebrows disappear into his hair, “I didn’t steal this, I got it from the new bakery that’s opened on Victoria Road.” After depositing the paper on Tommy’s desk he continued to eat his way through his prize, aware of Tommy’s gaze on him. “Do you want some?” he asks reluctantly.

“No, I don’t. New bakery? I haven’t heard anything about a new bakery.” He started to look through the files of new acquisitions on his desk.

“Well, you’ve been… distracted.” Finn spoke, playing willfully ignorant, with his mouth full of choux pastry and cream.

“Who are they paying?”  A shrug.  “What  _do_  you know?” Tommy glared at his brother who took his time licking the last bits of cream off his fingers before looking up at Tommy and reciting all the information he knows about the new addition to the neighbourhood.

“Opened on Monday, had a queue outside by Wednesday.  Not from 'round here, northerners, sounds like Manchester maybe.”

“Scuttlers?” Tommy quirked an eyebrow, “Thought they were too busy playing football now? What they doing baking pastries?” He stood up throwing on his coat and cap. “Let’s go and have a look then shall we?”

The outside of the bakery was painted white. It stood in stark contrast to the filth lined streets, how they had managed to keep it white even after being open only four days he had no idea, but there it was. A bright white front door, and a large window displaying what was left of the day’s breads, pastries and cakes, which wasn’t much. Admittedly, the shop was towards the nicer end of Victoria Road, but that was not saying much, this was still Small Heath after all and this place stood out like a sore thumb and looked far too rich for the majority of people in the area. A small bell rang as he pushed open the door, there were still a good number of people buying up the last loaves, however, when they saw him enter the crowd parted allowing him to walk slowly up towards the counter; his sharp eyes taking in the fixtures of the shop, old cabinets, but good quality. So perhaps not as rich as first appearances implied; a young girl covered in flour watched his approach with wide eyes.

“I wish to speak to the proprietor.” He leaned down over the girl, who he thought he recognised as one of the BSA factory workers daughters.

She squeaked and disappeared through a narrow door, which had barely begun to close before being pulled open again and a woman, dressed all in white, with flour streaking through her dark hair turning it grey, came striding through.

“Who the bloody hell is scaring my girls?” She pulled up short when she saw Tommy stood front and centre both hands resting on the glass cabinet that housed her more impressive creations. It was empty. “What can I do for you,” She took in the expensive cut of his suit and added a begrudging “Sir.” Which brought a small smile to his face.

“I would like to speak to the proprietor,” Tommy said, repeating himself.

“As you see.” She opened both her hands, plainly indicating that he should speak to her.

“No, I wish to speak with Mr E Kipling. Who registered this business with the council.”

Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, it was her only reaction before she spoke in a calm, measured and well-rehearsed tone, “I’m afraid Mr Kipling isn’t on the premises at the moment, he’s away on business. Perhaps I can help you if you would like to come into the office?” She gestured through the narrow door and turned on her heel not waiting to see if he followed. He did.

“Girls the customers won’t serve themselves!” Her voice cracked liked whip and the four girls who had been hiding in the kitchen immediately returned to the tasks they had been doing before Thomas’ appearance had disrupted the natural order of things.

She walked before him into a small office in the back of the building; it housed a single desk, a shelf with a single bottle of well-aged whisky, and four glasses. Seating herself behind the desk, she watched him with shrewd eyes as he settled himself opposite her. He removed his hat as he sat down but not before a shard of sunlight glanced off one of the blades sewn onto the peak.

They sat in silence, observing each other.

Tommy spoke first, “You said Mr Kipling is away on business?” His eyes were moving around the room, never settling on anything for long, sizing up his environment.

“I did.”

“A little unusual given that you have only recently opened.” Tommy's roving eyes now fixed themselves on the woman in front of him, “and he trusts you?”

“As you see.” She repeated her earlier words and stared back at him, her poker face still firmly in place.

So he would try a different approach.  “You were a nurse?”

Her face remained smoothly impassive but eyes widened ever so slightly, _there we go_  he thought to himself, clearly, the key to this woman was her eyes. “You sound like you’re used to ordering people about." He explained. "A couple of the matrons I met had me quaking in my boots.” They smile at a shared experience, but it was quickly replaced with a frown for that same-shared experience.

She spoke quietly when she asked; “Where were you?” 

“Mons, Verdun, the Somme.”

She dropped her head staring down at her laced fingers; memories of broken bodies, men, who were little more than boys screaming for their mothers, mud and blood saturating every possible surface; it flooded her senses, she could almost smell the blood, shit and vomit. “I’m sorry for you.” She whispered.

“And you?”

She was still distracted when she answered, her eyes were glazed over and out of focus, as though it was no longer, Tommy, she saw sat opposite her “the Somme and Ypres.” She spoke quietly, and then blinking twice she returned to herself locking the memories back in the box in her mind.

Tommy watched her carefully; he could see when she had herself under control “I’m sorry for you.” He repeated her own words.

She raised her face, her eyes meeting his, holding his gaze. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Thomas Shelby.” No reaction, so she had heard of him and had possibly been expecting him. “This is a dangerous part of town Mrs Kipling.”

An eyebrow raised was her only response to his statement “I was lead to believe that Victoria Road was not so dangerous as other parts, I have seen a florist and a coffee house as well as a chemist and a butcher on my walk to and from the store. All of whom look to be prospering.”

Tommy made a small nod of acknowledgement, “they are, for a very important reason. They are protected.” He explained.

“I see.” Thomas watched as she pulled a chain from around her neck and removed a small key. She opened the bottom drawer of the desk. “And how much is this protection?” she asked bluntly returning her gaze to his face, waiting for an answer.

He stood up and took two glasses from the shelf, placing them onto the desk in front of him “I like to know who my customers are, unknown entities can be dangerous, and it’s not often we get outsiders here you see.” He picked up the whisky and poured them both a generous tot.

Mrs Kipling did not try to stop him, how could she even if she had wanted to? Once he had seated himself again, she reached across taking the tumbler nearest to her. “What is it you would like to know Mr Shelby?”

“You and your shop appear to have dropped out of the sky, as if by magic.” He took a sip of whisky, silently impressed with its quality. “Before the war, you worked in a Hospital in Salford under the name McKinnon. Married for two years, Widowed. Two brothers, mother dead, father still alive.” He paused in his recital of her life story for another sip of Whisky. “Following the war you disappeared, declared missing on the 15th of December 1918 last known sighting on the road to Paris; presumed dead. You were not seen again until you turned up here, three weeks ago, rented this building and walked into the council offices with all the paperwork signed by a Mr E Kipling who I might add, no-one has laid eyes on, to register the business.”

Mrs Kipling was only half listening as Tommy gave his brief history of her life; she dropped her gaze to the tumbler in her hands. tilting the glass, she following the movement of the amber liquid with her eyes. If she was surprised, by how much he knew of her she did not show it. Thomas Shelby does his research; everybody knows that. He had known she had served as a nurse in France and Belgium before he had even set foot in the shop. But she too had done her research and had chosen this location specifically for its proximity to the Peaky Blinders. She had been around violent men before, and one more man trying to intimidate her was nothing new. Even if he happened to run the city, within which she currently resided.

“Was there a question hidden in there Mr Shelby?”

“There were two.” He drained the glass and placed it heavily on to the desk. “Firstly where have you been for the last three years? Secondly, who is Mr E Kipling?” If someone was trying the worm their way into his town he needed to know.

She took a sip of her own whisky, pondering both questions, he probably knew all of it already, but he could hear it now from her own lips. “My ‘usband, James was a corporal in the Lancashire Fusiliers, 2nd Salford Pals.  He fought at the Somme, an’ was injured on the third day of fighting, stuck in no-mans-land for more than a day before he managed to drag himself out.”  She took a deep breath then released it opening the top drawer of the desk - “James died at Passchendaele in August 1917.” - She removed a well-loved silver cigarette holder from the confines of the drawer, which she opened with a practised snap of her fingers, extracting a cigarette from within. She leant forward across the desk to offer Tommy one. It was her last he saw and gave his head a quick shake, he didn’t speak not wanting to distract her from the tale she was weaving, he continued his observation of her as she lit and quickly took a deep drag of smoke into her lungs, steady hands he noticed.

“My ‘usband was a good man, ‘e was smart.” she took another drag of her cigarette and released a plume of smoke up towards the ceiling. “So was I. We met at school, we went to our classes, we learnt everything they would teach us and then we left and he went to that fucking Mill, just like everybody else. He would’ve made foreman in a few more years. My mother knew a matron at the local hospital and I was able to begin my nurse training. But I enjoyed cooking, and more importantly, I was good at it.”

Another pause and the cigarette placed between her lips. “I enjoyed nursing, and it’s an honourable profession, but God I loved cooking. So we lived in a small flat, just the two of us and the dog. Every penny we earned we saved. We didn’t have children because we knew that would be it, he would be stuck in the Mill for the rest of his life and I would remain a nurse.” She looked slightly disgusted with her past self, “I was selfish, I didn’t appreciate my own good fortune in not working in that fucking hole.” She looked at the end of her cigarette, as she contemplated her next words, then with a small shrug she continued. “So we planned to open a bakery. And then the war happened, and he died.” She took another sip of her whisky, relaxing into her tale.

“You know who wasn’t a good man?”

A quirk of the eyebrow.

“My dad.” She didn’t elaborate, she didn’t have to. “So I stayed in France, eventually volunteered at a French ‘ospital, me an' a couple of the other girls had learnt to speak the language, we thought it might come in handy. Turned out it did. I met a French officer in this ‘ospital, he was a chef and would be returning to Paris once he recovered, to take up a position at some fancy place I had never heard of. I told that him I cooked.” She smiled at the memory and then in a terrible approximation of a French accent said: “ _Do not make me laugh my petit Cherie, Le Roast Beefs do not know the first thing about the art of food.”_  She dropped back into her own voice and pointed with her cigarette at the phantom memory “I warned him I would drown him in his soup if he didn’t stop laughing at me. On his final evenin’, I made him a meal of glazed goose, Potatoes cooked in the fat, and honey glazed roasted carrots and parsnips. It was one of my James’ favourite meals. Not that we had it very often.”

Tommy wasn’t surprised, a meal like that would cost almost a month’s wages on a Mill workers salary.

“Anyway he told me once I finished my work in the hospital I should come and join him in Paris, and he would train me properly." Mrs Kipling looked up and caught Tommy's eye. "Even after four years of war and bearing witness to countless atrocities I was still inherently a selfish creature so I disappeared and I went to Paris.” She extinguished her cigarette in a small glass ashtray.

Tommy was absorbing everything she had told him, it made for an interesting story he would give her that. “Why here?”

She looked at him eyes wide “I don’t follow you, Mr Shelby.” She did, he knew fine well she did.

“A French-trained chef, surely London would be better, richer pickings so to speak?”

She dropped the façade quickly “Oh much.” She said agreeing readily. “But also so much more competition.” She pulled a plain envelope from the bottom drawer and slid it across the desk towards him, watching his pale blue eyes follow the envelopes journey until it was within reach and a hand extended to take it. With a cursory glance inside, the envelope vanished into an inner pocket of his coat.

“I trust that should be sufficient to ensure our continued safety?”

She was right; there was a lot more competition in London, not just other bakers but also the sheer number of men like himself. Territories shifted in London; sometimes on a weekly basis. She might end up paying four different men for the same job. However, here there was only the Peaky Blinders. Pushing his chair back and shifting his weight to his feet, pursing his lips he gave her a single nod. She stood from her own chair to show him out, following him back through the kitchen and into the storefront, which was now empty of customers, the shelves bare and cleaned ready for the next day’s wares. On the counter sat a single yellow box tied with string, which she quickly took up and handed to him. “Next time you should visit us a little earlier Mr Shelby, all of my best items are generally gone by ten o’clock, and certainly by two.”

He looked down at the box in his hand a little bemused, “I’ll keep that in mind.” The small bell above the door rang as he exited the store drawing Finns attention from loitering against the window; he straightened himself and fell into step beside his brother.

“What time were you here this morning for that cake you had?”

“Eight.”

“For a bloody cake?”

“It’s good cake.” He looked at the box Tommy was holding. “What d’you get?”

“I dunno.” He handed Finn the box and removed his cap from of his pocket, pulling it over his eyes. “Share it out between everyone. But make sure I get some.”

“OK.”

Later that evening as Tommy finally made it to his bed he noticed a large piece of cake on his bedside table, it must have been an entire quarter of the thing. A simple Victoria Sponge, with a copious amount of raspberry jam and buttercream sandwiched between the layers. He left it where it was while he removed his clothing and climbed into bed. He lifted the cake to his lips and took a bite, resting his head back against the headboard as he chewed slowly. If someone had told him when he was digging those infernal tunnels that he would one day lay in bed eating cake, he would have laughed in their faces; or he would have if he had been able to make any noise. As he hovered on the edge of sleep, a thought occurred to him and he realised that she had never answered his second question. Well he would just have to find out himself who the mysterious E. Kipling was.

The following day, four loaves of bread, still warm from the oven, were delivered to the Watery Lane betting house, and every subsequent day.

On the first day of the following month, a yellow box tied with string arrived - alongside the usual four loaves - addressed to Tommy. Inside were 24 macarons of varying colours and flavours beneath them lay the protection payment. He sent the box down to be shared around his men, keeping one of each flavour for himself which he ate in bed; popping each one into his mouth savouring the moment, after the week he’d had he felt the need to indulge. Freddy succumbing to a pestilence and leaving Ada a widow with a young child, the Garrison being blown to kingdom come by the fucking IRA and trying to drag him into their fucked up politics. He had wanted to focus on the upcoming ‘holiday’, but the universe it seemed did not. Finally, he closed his eyes allowing sleep to take him, tomorrow the Shelby’s were going to London, and the expansion would begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birmingham is a dangerous city, whether you pay for protection or not. Sometimes a woman has to rely on other talents to get by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the people who left comments and 'kudos' on chapter 1, thank you for taking the time to press that magic little button.
> 
> There's a little bit of period-accurate racist language at the beginning of this one. It's not much, but it's there so I thought I would just give a heads up.

Tommy was in hospital and it fucking hurt!

God, it had been a while since he’d been on the receiving end such an epic beating, _fucking Sabini the fucking wop bastard!_  And to top it off, he had to put up with that smug fucking Copper coming and rubbing his face in the fact that he owed him his life. Sabini, Campbell, and the IRA. He had enemies coming out of his ears, well he wasn’t some fucking hired gun for sale, he was Thomas-fucking-Shelby and he would make every last one of the bastards pay!

After 4 days spent convalescing in hospital Tommy made his way to Charlie Strongs yard, he needed to get down to London to speak with the Jew, get his London expansion underway. He lay on the barge shivers wracking his body as the fever burned through him. His ribs screamed with pain every time he took a breath, his mouth was still bloody and raw and his face had seen far better days. Slowly but surely,  under the ministrations of Curly, he began to return to himself, and it couldn’t come at a better time, they had reached London and he had a meeting with Solomon. But _Christ_ he just wanted to go home.

When he did finally make it home, he was immediately accosted by Polly, who had obviously been talking with Charlie Strong when she asked the same question he did.

  
“What’s the bloody point of paying for a fancy hospital if you’re not going to use it eh?” She narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes at him, watching him hobble into the betting shop.

  
He grimaced as she walked past and bumped into him, pushing him into a bookcase. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you look like shit. Don’t blame me when you’re dead.”

Tommy made his way to his old office muttering quietly to himself “that’ll be the day” as he closed the door. He stayed in there for the rest of the day, looking through the paperwork that Arthur had left on the desk. The works on the Garrison were coming on. Alfie Solomon had sent a telegraph from London, good that was all on track then. The Suffragettes were planning a march through Birmingham City in two days’ time, that didn’t worry him, let the bored housewives march. A letter from Campbell, the bloody bastard. His hands began shaking with anger; he left it sealed until he could think with his thoughts unclouded by fury.

The next day Tommy was back in his office, a pot of tea next to his left hand, while he looked through the morning's post, he could hear someone hammering on the outside door and Arthur stomping through the betting shop, muttering obscenities to the hammering fist on the door.

“What the bloody hell do you want? Eh, where do you think you’re going?” Arthur stepped quickly out of the way of as short, dark-haired and extremely irate woman and a young girl of fourteen who trailed behind her marched past him and onto the shop floor. The girl had bruises on her face and neck.

  
Mrs Kipling stood in the middle of the betting shop, staring down Arthur, the young girl cowering behind her. “Thomas Shelby! We had a deal!” She shouted into the empty shop.

  
“Listen love” Arthur had barely begun before she interrupted him.

“Don’t you ‘ _love_ ’ me.” Her voice cut through the empty room. “I want to speak with Thomas Shelby.”

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” Polly joined the fray, emerging from the kitchen, “’Er aren’t you the new baker? What do you want?”

  
“What I want; is to speak to that lying, no good sack of shit, Thomas Shelby. Now!” She eyes cast quickly about the room, settling on the double doors at the end that hid Thomas’ office from view.

  
Polly noticing where the other woman’s gaze had landed squared her shoulders, readying for a fight “Now you listen ‘ere missy.”

The baker rounded on Polly and Arthur, her dark eyes narrowed in anger as she fixed them with a look that had Arthur half convinced she was about the murder them on the spot, Polly just stared back. She pushed the girl behind her before stepping towards Polly “If one more person call’s me ‘ _missy_ ’ or ‘ _love_ ’ I won’t be ‘eld responsible for my behaviour you patronising Brummy bastards” Her Mancunian accent becoming stronger as she punctuated each word.

A small smile passed over Polly's face, it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, and she held up two hands in an appeasing gesture “Alright, you’re right.” This woman would not be intimidated so she would try a different tack. “Tommy told me who you are and that you served as a nurse in France. Maybe I can help instead eh? Mrs Kipling is it?”

  
The petite woman let out a huff of angry air, before gentling pulling the battered and bruised girl out from behind her. “Look at ‘er.”

  
The girl was visibly shaking, her left eye was almost entirely swollen shut and a large bruise bloomed across her cheek. There were more bruises on her neck, which strongly resembled fingers. Polly placed a hand delicately under the girl's chin, lifting her face into the light. Mrs Kipling watched in silence as Polly conducted a quick catalogue of the visible injuries. “What’s your name?”

The girl looked to her employer, who gave her a quick nod of the head as encouragement, she opened her mouth to speak but before a word could escape, the front door burst open once again, and Finn came striding in. His eyes jumped from person to person - taking in the ongoing confrontation - before settling on the youngest person in the room.

  
“Sarah what are you - What happened to your face?” he made to move towards her reaching out a hand, but she made a small sound and hid behind Mrs Kipling, hiding her face in the older woman’s shoulder.

Finn span around to look at his Aunt Pol “Who did that to ‘er?”

Polly’s shrewd intuition went off like a light bulb. “We haven’t quite gotten to that part of the story yet Finn. How do you know Sarah eh?” Polly’s dark eyes levelled on her nephew as he quickly turned from pale to scarlet.

Mrs Kipling lost what grip she had on her patience and snapped at the pair in front of her “I would like to speak Thomas Shelby, right bloody now!” She turned and began to make her way towards his office hidden behind the closed doors. “We had an agreement and he has broken that agreement.”

Arthur tried to grab her arm but she snatched it away from him. “Tommy-“

“Has just arrived.” Tommy having grown tired of listening to the shouting taking place on the other side of his doors had decided to put an end to it and listen to the complaint so he could get back to his tea. He took in the scene before him; Arthur attempting to get in front of the baker to block her way. Pol’ losing her grip on the young girl, and Mrs Kipling who was simultaneously glaring at every Shelby family member in the room while simultaneously casting worried glances at the girl who having escaped Polly’s grasp promptly reattached herself to her employers' clothing. Everyone turned at the sound of his voice.

“Mr Shelby.” Mrs Kipling straightened herself up. “We need to talk.”

Tommy ran a hand through his hair. “So I heard. Come in ‘ere. Leave the girl out there, Pol’ take care of her.” He watched with growing impatience as she struggled to detach the girl from her woollen coat. Eventually, she freed herself and sat Sarah down on a chair. Tears sprang into the girl's eyes.

Polly noticed straightaway and stepped forward, crouching next to her. “Don’t you worry love, I’ll make you a nice pot of tea.” Pol said putting on her most motherly tone.

  
Once she was free, Mrs Kipling weaved her way through the tables until she was in front of Tommy, who taking a step to the side waved her inside the office, closing the doors behind them.

“Mrs Kipling, before you start haranguing me perhaps I can interest you in a cup of tea?” He indicated to the pot that he had steadily been making his way through. She cast a critical eye over the bruises covering his own face as though debating which angle she should approach the situation. She made her decision, giving a small nod to the affirmative, and watched as he poured a cup, “Milk? Sugar?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Very well.” He handed her the tea before placing himself carefully back behind his desk, “Please have a seat.”

She dropped somewhat gracefully into the offered chair and took a sip of the tea. “Mr Shelby.”

“Tommy.” He picked his own cup up, bringing it to his lips as he watched her face darken her eyes narrowing.

“This is not a social visit Mr Shelby. We had a business agreement.”

“We did.” He took out a cigarette packet, offering the woman sat opposite him one before taking his own. “And I understand that the bakery is flourishing. Orders from all over the city coming in, I hear you even had to install a telephone.” he raised his teacup towards her in a mock toast.

She scoffed a little “you’re not suggesting that my success has anything to do with you?” She set her cup down on the desk a little harder than strictly necessary. “I had queues out of the door after three days of opening them, before your presence graced my establishment.” She was bordering on the edge of contempt but still showed enough respect as to remain polite, just. 

She blew a strand of hair out of her face, she was impatient to get back to the bakery where one of the older girls had been left in charge, but she was not sure she trusted them to be alone for an extended period. “Mr Shelby, you assured me-”

“-I ensured the protection of the store. Not its employee’s” He interrupted curtly, staring down this impetuous outsider.

She tried again, “I pay more than any of the other stores in that area. I should expect to receive slightly more-“

“-no you receive the same protection.” He interrupted, again. His jaw was starting to hurt and he very much wanted this woman out of his site. _Perhaps_  he thought _if he offered her something small she would leave him in peace_. “Does the girl know who attacked her?”

Her eyes glanced towards the closed doors where she had left Sarah. “She won’t say, which suggests she does.”

“Polly will get it out of her.” He took another drag of his cigarette exhaling slowly before asking his next question. “Was she raped?”

The matter of fact way in which he asked his questions was somewhat of a relief “No. He was too pissed to do more than knock her about, and throttle her when he couldn’t do what he wanted.” She gave her attention to her own cigarette now; it had almost burnt down to the middle, so she tapped the ash off the end before placing it between her lips. “I would think this man would have a few scratches on his face this morning.”

Tommy nodded seemingly unmoved; Mrs Kipling would swear she could hear the cogs in his head ticking over. He pushed himself up from his chair, wincing slightly as his bruised ribs sent a jolt of pain through his chest.

She followed him over to the door but stopped him before he could open it with a hand placed gently on his arm. “Mr Shelby, your ribs need wrapping.”  
He glanced down at himself, a little perturbed that she, a stranger, had so easily noticed his discomfort. “They’re already done.” Curly had re-wrapped them not two days ago.

  
“Clearly not well enough.” Her faced hardened as though she were readying herself for something unpleasant. “I could take a look at them. Wrap them properly for you?”

Tommy looked down at her, amusement dancing behind his eyes, he might have smiled would it not have hurt his jaw. “Is that pesky nurse training kicking in Mrs Kipling?”

She sighed, as though it pained her to admit it. “Yes, it is.” The last thing she wanted was to stay in this room any longer with those ice-cold eyes, they made her blood run cold every time she made the mistake of making eye contact. “Do you want me to take a look at them?”

“They’re old injuries, almost healed.” Tommy shrugged, regretting it instantly when a spasm of pain jerked through his torso. She noticed and let out another sigh before removing her coat, rolling her shoulders back and her sleeves up. “Come on let’s have a look at you S-.” She winced, biting her tongue and cutting off the last word, but Tommy added the _Soldier_ in his own head as she led him back to his chair.

She helped him remove his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders so he didn’t need to twist, then she let him remove the garters from his shirtsleeves before helping him remove his shirt. She clucked her tongue in disapproval when she saw the bandages wrapped loosely around his torso and the bruises that -although they were now beginning to turn a sickly yellow and green colour - still adorned the majority of his skin. She cocked a disapproving eyebrow, and in a dry tone of voice said “well the bandages are _mostly_ clean. That’s something I suppose.” She was unable to keep the sarcasm dripping like treacle from her words.

It was as though she had placed a nurse’s hat on top of her head, she transformed before him, her focus narrowing to the injuries before her eyes, leaving no room for any other thoughts in her mind. She began to unwrap the bandages, by necessity standing close and wrapping her own arms around his chest as she unwound the fabric. Once all the bindings were off she walked around him, slowly placing her hands on his skin feeling for the more tender areas which she might place a little extra padding.

Tommy held still under her ministrations. It felt an age since a woman had laid hands on him with nothing on her mind, but the relief of suffering. The nurses in the hospital had been young and newly trained, they had mostly tried to avoid him and one or two had tried to sleep with him despite him being in no fit state to perform. The matron, an older woman knew her job well, but she had other patients to tend, and would not devote all her time to him.

In comparison, the nurses in France had been like angels. They shared the horrors of the trenches, and they took what they could of those horrors from the men they tended onto themselves for a short while. They tried to help ease what pain and suffering they could; soothing wounds, listening when it was needed, and speaking when the men could not bring themselves to. He remembered them singing quietly in the night as they weaved their way between beds, a hand brushing lightly against a cheek or through hair, a squeeze of the fingers as they brushed past those who lay awake at night, fearing the terrors the darkness of sleep would bring.

She began to wrap his ribs once more, slowly passing the strapping from one hand to another, ensuring it was tightly and evenly wrapped around his torso, he let out a small grunt of pain when she tightened them further still, but she ignored him continuing her work. Once she had finished she tied a quick knot to hold the strapping in place then stepped away casting a critical gaze over her work. Her eyes settled on a scar not hidden by the masses of fabric currently covering the majority of his upper body.

  
“You were shot twice during The War Mr Shelby?” She whispered, her hand placed on the scar that marred his chest.

“No. Only once.” He glanced down at the scar on his chest. “This one happened after The War.”

A blink of her eyes and the combat nurse vanished, replaced by the cynical baker. “Occupational hazard?”

He watched as she removed her hand from the scarred flesh, taking her warmth with her. “Something like that,” he said sardonically.

She helped to redress him, the newly tightened bindings hindering his movements more than ever. “I can barely breathe,” He complained as she brought his jacket to him.

  
“Good. The less movement the quicker those ribs will mend.” She picked up her coat, pulling it on as she followed him back to the office door. This time he stopped her from leaving.

“Does my brother spend a lot of time at your bakery?”

“Your brother Finn?” Yes, he’s usually around first thing; he has a taste for eclairs and meat pies, as well as other things.” She muttered quietly.

He gave her a quick nod, a decision made. “Good, in which case he can make himself useful. Every morning he will meet your girls, escort them to the bakery and then at the end of the day, he will escort them home. His presence should be more than enough to guarantee their safety.”

Mrs Kipling gawked up him before quickly pulling herself together. “Thank you, Mr Shelby.”

“Give Pol’ their names and addresses and he’ll be waiting for them this afternoon.” He held out a hand for her to take, which she did giving him a strong handshake and a small smile.

At 4 o’clock, that afternoon, Finn Shelby and another boy, she did not recognise stood loitering outside the front of the bakery waiting for the girls to finish their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's Chapter 2. What did you think? 
> 
> I was eating my last bit of chocolate cake as I posted this chapter, which means that you'll have to send me a metaphorical chocolate cake in the form of comments and 'kudos'.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrest is on the rise in Birmingham and sometimes the Shelby name isn't all it's cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who has taken the time to leave me a 'kudos' or a little comment. Whenever I see the notification in my inbox it really brightens up my day.
> 
> I've not got a beta so all mistakes belong to meeee!

 

 

Tommy was beginning to feel human again, and with it, the urge for retribution grew. He sat at his desk from first light to well into the night. He would exact his vengeance with methodical ruthlessness and brutality, and each of his enemies would know that they were sent to meet their maker because they pushed Thomas Shelby.

“The Suffragettes are marching through the City.” John poked his head into Tommy office.

Tommy paused in his deliberations and looked up at his brother wondering _why he was being bothered with this?_   “I know, leave them be.” He bent his head back over the papers he had been reading effectively dismissing John.

John, however, was either being willfully ignorant or simply wasn’t picking up on Tommy’s mood and slid fully into the office and over to the decanter of whiskey by the window. “Coppers might not.”

Tommy’s eye’s flickered over to John in irritation. “That’s their problem.” He picked up the papers and turned his chair so his back was now to his brother, who after filling his glass, drinking the contents and refilling it. Decided to leave his older brother to his brooding.

 

* * *

 

Following the war and the passing of _The_ _Representation of the People Act_   _1918 -_ which granted the vote to _some_ women; provided they were aged over 30 and either they or their husband, meet a property qualification - the suffragist movement had quietened. However, it was now four years since the end of the Great War. Many of the women who did not fall under the remit of the 1918 Act, who had worked in the factories in place of the men who were in France began to feel that they were once again being exploited; doing the same work as men, the same hours but working for less money and with no voice. Of course, if all women were granted the vote they would outnumber male voters whose numbers had been decimated by The War.

The marches were beginning again and gaining traction around the country. The violence that had accompanied the Suffragettes prior to The War had not yet been seen but the was fear was already among the men, as it often is when they feel an inevitable change coming. As it was, the march passed by in relative peace with the few hundred women who attended returning to their homes ready to begin the working week.

And so it continued over the coming weeks, the women would march peacefully and then come Monday morning be back, taking their positions in the workforce be they in factories, offices or homes. The men were beginning to relax, the women were not.  The women were beginning to whisper of taking action that would reignite the spark. The peaceful protests were not working, so they would return to their policies from before the outbreak of war.

 

* * *

 

The Bakery was busy. Orders were coming from all across the city and outside. Mrs Kipling had put a phone in so the more well-to-do could telephone their orders. The girls who worked there kept busy for six days a week. Each of them recognised the good fortune that had granted them the positions working for a woman and being paid far more than normal apprentices would be. Mrs Kipling was not stupid; she looked after her girls, paid them well and was rewarded with their unwavering loyalty. Not only from her apprentices but also their families. She had been concerned after the attack on Sarah that the girls’ parents would no longer want them to work in The Bakery, however when the news of her immediate meeting with Thomas Shelby and the additional protection put into place for all of the girls; their approval of her skyrocketed. It also helped that each day the girls were sent home with fresh bread and if there were any left, a pie each. On a Saturday, they received a dessert for Sunday dinner.

Leading up to Christmas Mrs Kipling began taking orders for Christmas cakes, ranging from simple, rustic and relatively cheap. To extravagant creations wanted by the middle and upper classes. She was aware that many people in the area could not afford to purchase one of her cakes and so every time she received a phone call placing an order, she added a few shillings onto the cost. On Sundays, she would make the cakes with that money and come Christmas Eve would deliver them to the local hospital and charities so that the poor could partake in some festive cheer.

And so it was in The Bakery kitchen where she could be found on the Sunday week preceding Christmas, with a large bowl of fruitcake mixture and humming Christmas hymns to herself. A noise from outside cut her off mid-way through a rather out of tune “ _Falalalala, lalalala_.” She paused waiting to see if the noise would come again, and just as she thought whoever it was had passed the shop by a fist began pounding on the door.

“Mrs Kipling!” A voice hissed from the other side of the door. “Mrs Kipling please open the door!” It was a young man, clearly panicked.

She made her way to the back door of the kitchen, picking a rolling-pin up along the way. She waited for the panicked knocking to stop before swinging the door open rolling-pin at the ready.

“Finn Shelby what the bloody ‘ell are you playin’ at!” She scolded as he pushed past her into the kitchen and slammed the door shut sliding the deadbolt into place.  
“Ssshhh!” He pushed her behind him and placed his ear up against the door.

She hissed down his ear “Finn!” , she still had the rolling-pin in her hand and hadn’t entirely ruled out whacking him about the head with it. Especially when he waved a hand behind him trying the push her away.

She watched him for a few more seconds, seeing the nasty looking cut along his cheek, the split lip and recognising the look of a ‘man’ who would not be distracted from whatever ridiculous situation had arisen. “Well when you decide to tell me what’s going on, I’ll be over here finishing my cake mixture.” She had barely retrieved the wooden spoon she had left sitting in the bowl when she heard the dustbins outside fall.

Finn’s eyes widened. “Shit!”

“Right.” She whispered but her voice carried across the room as clear as if she had shouted. She slammed the spoon down on the worktop. “You tell me what is going on right this bloody second!”

Finn looked at her, blinking gormlessly for a second before launching into his tale. “It’s some lads from the Brummagem’s. They saw me leavin’… ah well, where I was leavin’ doesn’t really matter." He said sheepishly running a hand through his hair. " What matters is they thought it’d be a good opportunity to jump me and give a Shelby a good kickin’”  
Mrs Kipling could barely keep her eyes from rolling, “Right, you go upstairs and keep bloody quiet. I’ll deal with them.”  
Finn’s cheeks flush red as he began to splutter. “Miss no you can’t!”

She picked up the rolling pin again caressing it lovingly “Oh can’t I?” she said menacingly, and Finn thought that actually, she could probably beat the whole lot of them to death with that thing if she wanted to.

“But they’ve got knives!” He persisted instead.

She took hold of the back of his coat and hauled him from his position behind the door hissing down his ear as she did so. “Get your fuckin’ arse upstairs now! And for Christ's sake don’t make a bloody sound.”

He acquiesced quickly, running silently up the stairs hidden behind another door, and into her flat above The Bakery.

Mrs Kipling waited for the floorboards to stop creaking above her. After a few seconds of silence from above she took a deep breath before she swung open the door once again stepping out into the relative darkness of The Bakery's backyard, rolling pin held ready in her hands.

“Right! What the bloody hell is going on out there?”

A voice answered here but she couldn’t see who it belonged to. “’Ere Mrs, you seen a Shelby come through here?” A group of three boys were lurking in the darkness at the back of her small garden.

“A Shelby?” She asked as though the very notion of such a creature was alien to her. “No.” She finally decided. “I ‘aven’t. Now, why are you outside my shop at almost 10 o’clock at night playing silly beggars with my dustbins?”

One of the boys stepped forward and the light from The Bakery's kitchen lit up his features, he looked to be around 17 and had a trickle of blood running down his face, where she assumed Finn had managed to land a hit. “I was sure he came through ‘ere.” He tried to crowd her space, to make her take a step backwards. Instead, she brought her rolling-pin forward and jabbed hard catching him in the stomach and causing him to drop to his knees, he let out a startled grunt of pain.

This action drew startled cries from his friends. “Oi! You can’t do that to ‘im!” One of the other boys came towards her. But she took a swing at him forcing him to jump backwards out of the way. The first boy was still on his knees, gasping for breath at her feet.

“No?" she said sarcastically, "Just watch me.” She hefted the rolling-pin ready to bring it down on his head. But stopped just before she made contact. “Listen to me you little toe-rags. I know all your mothers and I will be speaking to them as soon as they step door through my door tomorrow. So I suggest you leave right now before I give you something you’ll really be sorry about.”

All three boys looked at each other weighing their chances before picking up their comrade and turning to leave.

“And sort my dustbins out before you disappear!” She shouted after them as the gate shut behind their retreating figures. She waited, listening to them picking up the bins that had been knocked to the ground and muttering between themselves. “Little bastards,” She said to herself before turning and heading back inside and bolting the door behind her.

She headed back to her cake mixture and covered it over, she would have one of the girls finish it tomorrow; she was in no mood to do it now, she had far too much adrenaline running through her veins and didn’t want to spoil the cake with it. She made a quick phone call before heading upstairs to join Finn in her home. As she walked through the door into her small living-room Finn couldn’t be seen.  
  
“Finn?”

She heard a noise to her right and putting her head into her bedroom had to fight the very real urge to laugh-out-loud when she saw him appear from within her wardrobe. She managed to control her amusement, just.

“Come and have a sit-down, I’ll give those cuts a wash.” She walked to a cabinet that she kept a small amount of simple medical equipment; a few bandages and medicinal alcohol, cotton wool and tweezers, stitching needles as well as a scalpel.

Finn made his way over to her settee, seating himself in the middle he picked up a cushion, holding it across his body as a shield. She watched him for a moment in her peripheral vision as she readied her tools, he looked very young; all pale, bruised and bloodied and unless she was very much mistaken, _and she wasn't_ , the shakes would begin shortly.  
  
She brought a lamp over with her and set it down alongside the bottle of alcohol, on a small table. She placed a finger under his chin, tilting his face into the light “Let’s have a look at you then.” She spent the next ten minutes talking to Finn and reassuring him as she cleaned the cuts on his face.

She sat back on her haunches so she was level with his face, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised the injuries, mostly superficial but the one running along his cheek was deep and would not heal without a little bit of 20th-century help. “This one might need a couple of stitches.” She picked up a needle, threading it with practised ease. “This might sting a bit.”

If it was possible for him to get any paler her words did the job and what little colour he had left drained from his face, his eyes were still blown wide with adrenaline, but she could see the signs it was wearing off, he was starting to shiver in his seat. Before she could begin, there was an enormous crash on the store’s front door. “Bollocks to it.” She threw the needle and thread back onto the table, and ran quickly downstairs, taking hold of the rolling-pin once again.

She entered the front of the store expecting to see broken glass scattered across the floor, instead, there was a dark silhouette blocking the doorway. “God damn bloody Shelby’s!” She crossed to the door, unlocking it and stepping back as Thomas Shelby strode purposefully into the store, coat flaring out behind him.

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs.”

Without waiting for an invitation, he marched through the store into the kitchen and up the stairs into her home. “Finn?”

“In here.”

Finn got to his feet asTommy walked into the living room “Let’s have a look at you.” He scrutinised his little brothers face, taking in the large cut across his cheek, the developing black eye and the split lip, his eyes flitting down to the blood encrusted cotton wool. He noticed the needle and thread waiting, ready to be put to use. He didn’t turn at the creak of the floorboards, as Mrs Kipling made her way slowly up the stairs. “She’s going to stitch you up?”

Finn nodded, and then cleared his throat. “Could we go to a hospital?” he asked weakly, his shivering was getting worse, and he just wanted to be in bed.

“You want to go to a hospital? So everyone can see you?” Tommy pushed Finn back onto the settee. “No, you can’t go to a bloody hospital.”

“What do you want to do that for? Waste of bleedin’ money.” Mrs Kipling arrived in the doorway, stood for a couple of seconds observing Tommy standing over his brother, then made her way quickly to a bureau she had against a wall, inside of which was hidden a bottle of rum. She poured two glasses and handed one to each of the men in her living room. “I’ve put far worse than you back together Finn Shelby. Now drink this.” She quickly gave the needle a wipe with a clean cotton ball soaked in alcohol.

Tommy took his glass and went to stand beside the window, watching as she placed a soothing hand on his brother’s hair, running her fingers through it. “Hush now lad,” She spoke, her voice dropping half an octave, “It’ll be alright.” Finn stilled under her hand as though caught in a spell, and did not seem to notice when she finally began to stitch the laceration on his cheek. While she worked, she spoke to him in hushed and hypnotic tones.

Tommy's gazed drifted to a picture hanging on the wall. A candid picture of a couple laughing on their wedding day. Petals were caught in the woman’s curly hair; her eyes were sparkling with happiness, her face alight with laughter. The man in the picture had his eyes fixed on the woman beside him; adoration written plainly across his face, those same petals that were caught in his wife’s hair bedecked his shoulders. Tommy's eyes flickered back to the woman tending his youngest brother. In appearance, she was very much the same, the lines around her eyes and lips a little more pronounced perhaps. However, there seemed very little remaining of the woman in the picture, there is no light shining out from within those dark eyes, and in the few times their paths had crossed, he would not have said she was a woman who laughed, at all.

“There. Now I told you it would be fine.” She walked over to her basin and threw the needle into it. “And you’ll have a scar on your cheek, just like your brother.” She shot a wink at Tommy, who distracted by his own thoughts answered with his own half-hearted smile. “Girls like a man with a few scars, isn’t that right Mr Shelby?”

“Eh? Oh aye.” He shook himself out of the stupor he had fallen in to and went to inspect his brothers’ face; she had made a neat job of it. “Come on let’s get going, Scudboat is waiting in the car.” He made to follow Finn down the stairs to the kitchen, but paused before he had taken three steps, and turned back to her, she was lighting a cigarette. “I want to thank you for what you did for ‘im tonight Mrs Kipling, there are not many women could ‘av held their own against three grown lads.”

She expelled a cloud of smoke from her lungs, up towards the ceiling, “Well that’s not the first time I’ve had to wallop someone for being a little too forward, I had plenty of practice in France.”

He nodded slowly, then put his hand into his pocket and took out a wad of bank notes and held it out to her, “for your service’s tonight.”

She removes the cigarette from her lips and holds him with a look, her eyes as dark as peat. “I didn’t do it for money. He’s a good boy.” She pointed at him, cigarette held between her fingers her shrewd eyes narrowing slightly as she says accusingly “despite ‘aving you an’ your brothers as role models.”

He chuckled humourlessly “Aye well you can say that again.” He puts the money on top of the bureau and then places the empty glass he still holds on top of it. “Good night Mrs Kipling.”

She waits five minutes before following him down the stairs. By the time she's locked the front door the street is dark and empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, Chapter 3! I hope you all liked it?  
> If you did let me know and hit me up with a little comment below. Same goes if you didn't like this chapter, constructive criticism is always welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy takes a trip further North to gather information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to be relatively fluffy but I changed my mind and pretty much re-wrote the entire thing which is why it's taken me a bit longer to post this one.
> 
> No Beta so all mistakes are my own.

Tommy Shelby is in Manchester.  _What the fuck am I doing in Manchester_? He thought to himself as he walked along a cobbled street, lined with terraced houses, built from the red brick the city is famous for. The houses might have been pretty, only 20 years old, in neat rows, with a small green in the middle.  But this was Manchester and the red bricks were already black; caked in the coal dust, smoke and muck being chucked out by the many mills and factories that dominated this City. He stopped in front of a door marked with a brass plate the number 29, he knocked twice.  It was an early Sunday afternoon; people who attended would be home from church now.  He just hoped they weren’t already in the pub.

He knocked again, beating his hand hard against the door. From inside he heard a yell and footsteps approaching quickly towards the door, he took a step back to give himself some space from whoever was going to answer.

It was a young man of around 14 or 15, with dark hair and familiar dark eyes; he was a similar height to Tommy, maybe a little taller and well built. “Can I help you?”

“Joseph Dunne?”

“Yes” A suspicious look formed on his face, a small frown marring his young features as he took in Tommy's expensive clothing.

“My name is Thomas Shelby.” Tommy held out a hand to the lad who took it giving it a firm shake. “I knew your Sister in France.”

The boys' jaw dropped, whatever he had been expecting it wasn’t that. He took a step backward placing a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. “You knew…”

“Yes. She was stationed at the field hospital I spent some time in.”

Joe gawped at him for a few seconds before recollecting himself “Sorry Mr Shelby.  Would you like to come inside?”

Tommy flashed the lad his most charming smile, it was generally reserved for women but he found it could work well on naive young men, especially ones who had no idea who he was. “Thank you. I think I will.” He took his cap off as he stepped into the hallway, rolling it up and stuffing it into his coat pocket. He followed the boy into a tidy living room, which housed a settee and a single leather armchair. Tommy took a seat in the armchair.

 “Can I get you a drink, Mr Shelby?”

Tommy glanced around the room, taking note of the décor and the furniture; simple but well built.

“Whisky is you have it.”

“We have rum?”

“That’ll do.”

Joe paused for a second before straightening himself and disappearing inside a cabinet hung on the wall. He emerged holding a bottle of dark rum and two glasses.  Tommy watched as the boy poured two glasses, he handed a generous measure to Tommy and kept the smaller for himself.  Joseph settled himself on the settee sitting opposite Tommy.

“You said you knew my sister Mr Shelby.”

Tommy took a gulp of rum, “I did-” He was interrupted when the front door burst open, bouncing off the wall with a crash. Joe’s face dropped and very briefly a look of abject horror engulfed his features, before being replaced by simple worry.  An older man strode into the living room; he had a flat cap perched onto of his head, large dark eyes that seemed to be a family trait, ruddy cheeks with which were marred with burst blood vessels and a smoking pipe hanging loosely from his lips. He stood observing Tommy with intelligent eyes, they flickered to Joe who had jumped to his feet when the man walked into the room, then back to Tommy. He removed his pipe from between his lips.

Joe took the opportunity while the man was preoccupied with Tommy to discreetly place his glass of rum on the floor by his feet so that it was hidden behind the arm of the seat. “Dad.  What are you-“

“Who’s this?” He asked pointing at Tommy, pipe in hand.  Tommy shifted his weight, pushing himself out of the chair and onto his feet and facing the man square on. 

Joe shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “This is-”

“Thomas Shelby.” He said, somehow managing to lace those two words with ice as he stepped towards the man with his hand held outstretched.

The older man’s eyes took in Tommy’s expensive clothing; and if they had not been enough to tell him, he was dealing with someone above his league; the steel which had entered Tommy’s eye’s certainly would have done the job. He reached out a hand reluctantly and grasped Tommy’s offered hand for a brief moment.  Tommy had to hold back the smirk that was fighting to show itself on his face.  He knew men like this, but terrorising a household is nothing to the ability to terrorise a city, and Thomas Shelby had been doing that since he had returned home from France.

“Fred Dunne.” He grunted at Tommy as they each released the others hands. “What do you want with Joe?” his eyes darted over to his son, who having witnessed the change in Tommy from the genial fellow he had welcomed into the house, was gawking slightly conspicuously.

Tommy took another sip of his rum, this time he could not help the small smile from slipping onto his face as Fred Dunne’s eye’s bulged slightly as he swallowed. “I don’t want anything from your son Mr. Dunne.  I'm in the city for business and wanted to pay my regards to your daughter.” It was as though the temperature of the room dropped at the mention of Mr. Dunne's daughter, and the physical changes this statement caused in both of his new acquaintances was almost comical.  Joe’s jaw dropped and he almost stumbled backward, bumping into the settee and sitting on the arm.  Fred Dunne’s face, however, changed from white to red in a matter of seconds and his eyes began to bulge.

“She ain’t ‘ere.” His anger almost overflowing, “She’s gone.” He very much wanted to hit this bloody Thomas Shelby in the mouth and throw him from his home.

Tommy pulled his cigarette holder from within his coat, cocking an eyebrow in Fred Dunne’s direction, who begrudgingly nodded his accent.  Tommy carefully selected a cigarette as he skillfully wove his work of fiction for his audience. “I am aware, before coming here I paid a visit to her address in Adelphi Street. I was informed by a neighbour that she and her husband never returned from France.” He skimmed his chosen cigarette across his top lip before lighting it, exhaling briskly. He looked up into Joe’s dark eyes. “I am sorry for your loss. She was a remarkable woman.”

The older Mr Dunne scoffed, but Joe cleared his throat, drawing Tommy’s attention back to the young man. “Did you hear? - Did they tell you what happened to her?”

Tommy fixed his eyes on the boy “Her neighbour told me she never came home from France.  She didn’t give me any details.” The lie tripped smoothly off his tongue.

Joe cast a brief look at his father, steeling himself, he leaned down and swept up his own glass, taking a mouthful, very much bracing himself for what he was about to say; “Some bloody frog killed her. Killed her as she was making her way to Paris.” He put his glass down on a table beside before he continued, his voice growing more frantic as he went on. “She made it through the shelling of her bleedin’ hospital, and then volunteered to stay on and help in a French hospital an’ the bastards killed her for it.”

Tommy listened in silence; smoking his cigarette he fixed his eyes on the young man in front of him taking in all of his words, some of it he knew already, but not all. Everything new he learned helped build a picture of the woman who had, for all extent and purposes, dropped from the sky and managed to integrate herself into the heart of the Small Heath community.

“Her hospital was shelled?” He knew how that felt, being helpless to do anything while the walls quite literally crumbled around you. The records he had uncovered before his first interaction with her had stated that she had been honoured for valour, but it had not said what for.  Perhaps it was when the shelling occurred?

Joe lifted his head, “Yeah.” He picked his glass up again and drained it. “It was an accident apparently; nearly everyone in the ‘ospital was killed, everyone but two nurses, a doctor, and six patients.  Our kid was always lucky, that’s what our Georgie says-”

“Enough.” Mr Dunne silenced his son, “I won’t have any more talk of 'er in this house.”

“But she won medals!”

His father’s eyes bulged and a vein pulsed in his neck. “They gave everyone a bloody medal!” The man said he was irate muttering to himself “giving bloody women medals!”.  Tommy was becoming more and more intrigued by the man and reaction to the talk of his daughter, what could have happened for him to deride his own daughter in such a way?

“Georgie?” Thomas spoke instead to young Joseph, “he’s your elder brother?” Tommy said as he tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray.

“Yes. “ He answered and then added as an afterthought “He fought in France as well.”  Joe was struggling with conflicting feelings. On one hand, by continuing to ask Tommy questions he was risking angering his dad further but he couldn’t _not_ ask questions about his older sister. 

She was an enigma to him. He had been six when War broke out, his sister had immediately volunteered alongside her husband and he had seen her again only twice before she disappeared.  As a child, he had built her up in his head.  When a family friend of his mothers who lived in London had sent them the London Gazette that contained her name in a special list of persons ‘ _Mentioned in Dispatches.’_ She had taken on an almost legendary status in his mind and the idea that the man in front of him had known her and had spoken with her, the thought overwhelmed him. _He had to know everything!_

Tommy exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room. In Joe’s mind he looked like a man thinking about the best way to express himself, perhaps to admit he had fallen in love, he had heard a lot of the soldiers had fallen in love with the nurses who helped them to heal. Instead, he was about to hear the story Tommy had invented on his drive to Manchester.

“I spoke with your sister every night while I was in that hospital; we covered a lot of ground.” The lies fell easily from his mouth. He kept to the things he knew about her, things she mentioned when they had spoken, and snippets of her former life he had gleaned from being in her home. And with that small amount of knowledge, he weaved a fabricated tale of a wartime friendship until it saturated the small room.

Fred Dunne watched Tommy as he told his story, with eyes as dark as coal. Tommy watched him in return, although with slightly more finesse so that Frank Dunne was unaware that Thomas Shelby’s ice-cold gaze caught every twitch of his eye and clench of his jaw.  He had at first tried to interrupt; to stop Tommy from talking but Tommy had simply ignored him with the confidence of a man who always does what he wants.

 Joe followed the tale with stars in his eyes, his sister had never seemed so real to him, not even when his brother George had told him stories of them playing together as children. Tommy’s story had blood, mud, pain, and heartbreak - that part was not a fiction. The inclusion of The Baker, however, was entirely made up but Joe was not to know that.

There was a knock at the front door of the house, swiftly followed by the door opening and the sound of scrambling of claws on floorboards.

A voice shouted from the hallway as the door slammed shut. “Joe!  There’s a car parked down the road. ‘Av, you seen it?” A man similar to Tommy in age walked into the living room and froze, he was broad in the chest and arms, and wrapped around one arm was a rope that connected him to a dog that looks to be _mostly_ Labrador although his size said differently. His fur was pale as to be almost white, with huge feet, and an even bigger head finished with a pink nose.

The new addition cast his eyes around the living room, unlike his brother, father and sister his eyes are a lighter hazel colour, his hair fairer still.  They hold the same intelligence within them however as he takes in the tense scene in the living room.

His father, like a coiled spring, is standing just through the threshold of the living room door, Joe further inside the room with such a rainbow of emotions dancing across his young face that he had no idea if his brother is upset, happy or in pain.  Then the stranger, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than six months wages, a cap folded and stuffed into the pocket of his wool coat, cigarette held loosely between his fingers.

“What’s going on here then?” He asks in a carefully measured tone.

“We ‘av a visitor.” His dad doesn’t turn to look at him, but he can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, see the tension in his shoulders and hear it in his voice.  It will not be a pleasant evening when this stranger left.

Tommy extinguished his cigarette and held out a hand the man to shake, which he promptly did, stepping around his father, the dog still attached to him arm came with him. “My name is Thomas Shelby.  I knew your sister in France.”

His eye’s widened infinitesimally, “George Dunne. I assume my brother has told you she did not make it home from France?”

Tommy inclined his head in agreement. “We were just discussing it.”

“Where is that accent from Mr. Shelby?” George was worried, very bloody worried.

“Birmingham.”

His face visibly paled, fortunately, neither his father or brother seemed to notice his change of pallor, but Tommy noticed, because that’s what Tommy does, he notices things, especially when he’s looking for them. “What brings you up here?” His voice, whether by design or not drops to an almost whisper catching his father attention.

“Eh lad?  What’s going on here?”

George straightened himself and pulled the dog - who had been attempting to get closer to Tommy – back to heel. “Nothing dad.”

“I’m here on business Mr. Dunne nothing more.”

“What kind of business?”

Tommy eye’s drifted to each of the men in the room, watching them carefully. The eldest Mr. Dunne settling himself back against the doorframe, pipe in his mouth he looked like he would very much like to kick seven shades of shit out of Tommy.  The youngest Mr Dunne, Joe, appeared to be finally noticing the tense atmosphere in the room his eye’s kept returning to his father, worry etching itself across his features.  The middle Mr Dunne looked like a man who was doing some very quick thinking. “I work with horses.” Tommy finally answered.

“Not many of those ‘round ‘ere.”

“No.  There isn’t.” Tommy extinguished his cigarette and threw back the last of his drink. He had what he had come for. “I’ll be leaving you to your Sunday.” He caught George’s eye. “Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.  Your sister was a remarkable woman.”

“I’ll see you out Mr Shelby.” George said quickly before his father could interject with exactly what he thought his daughter was.  “Come on Bear.”  George and the Dog -Bear-led Tommy to the front door.  He pulled it open and stood to one side as Tommy stepped out into the street.  George followed, closing the door softly behind him. The two men and the dog made their way towards Tommy’s car.

It was Tommy who broke the silence. “Do you know a Mr. E Kipling?”

“Kipling?” George faltered midstride as he considered the question, Bear let out a loud whine and absentmindedly George reached down and patted him on his very large head. “It’s not ringing any bells.”

Tommy watched him carefully, “No?”

“Why do you ask Mr. Shelby?”

They had reached the car now, and stood facing one another “A ‘ _Kipling’_ has just moved into the Small Heath area of Birmingham, has a Mancunian accent.”

“There’s a lot of people live in Manchester.” He allowed a small smile to turn his lips up, “I don’t know everyone.”

Tommy knew everyone in Birmingham, that’s how he stayed alive. “No.” He said instead, “I suppose not.” Tommy opened the car door and turned to climb in. “What do you do Mr. Dunne?” He stopped and turned back to face George.

“I’m a carpenter, a joiner. Why?”

“You made the furniture in the house?”

“I made some of it.”

He nodded slowly, pulling his cap out of his pocket and pulled it low over his eyes. “Your brother said you served.”

“Aye, I did.” Suspicion leeching into his voice, as though unsure where the conversation was heading.

“Reserved occupation carpentry.” His cap veiled Tommy’s eyes in shadow.

“It is.” George frowned, _Did he think he was lying about serving?_   “My brother in law, all my mates and even my bleedin’ sister all enlisted. Do you think I’d stay behind like Piffy on a rock bun?” He hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d raised his voice as he spoke.

Tommy tilted his face slightly so he could get a proper look at him. “So you lied?”

George Dunne was a good man, and did not appreciate the insinuation “What, like some bloody teenager trying to hide my age so I could sign up at 14?  No I didn’t bloody lie.” He exhaled heavily, calming himself down.  “I bribed the bloody recruiting sergeant.” He finally admitted; his voice laced with vexation.

Tommy started to laugh, an actual honest to god full of humour laugh. “I didn’t peg you for the sort.”

“Yes well.  Needs must.”

They shook hands and Tommy climbed up into his car, he leaned out of the window. “Mr Dunne.” He reached a hand out back out through the window to shake George’s hand, and as their hands briefly clasped together, both men could feel what Tommy’s three-piece suits and expensive cars hid from the world. The feel of labour hardened skin on labour hardened skin that announced as plain as day where these men came from. _The hands always give you away_. “It’s always handy knowing a carpenter with considerable skill.” And with that Tommy took his leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please leave a comment and let me know what you think. Even if it's two words.  
> Don't feel daft, and please know that every comment you leave makes this and any other authors day :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker finds herself in a tricky situation and must rely on new found friends to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****WARNING****  
> Please note that there is a line break within this chapter. Inside this break are scenes of force feeding, physical and mental abuse. If you do not wish to read it you can skip past to the next section.

Mrs Kipling was livid.  Her hands balled tightly into fists, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands and cutting through the skin leaving crescent shape incisions along her palms. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and those tears which had overflown had left streaks down her cheeks which she angrily cuffed away with the sleeve of her blouse. _Well’,_  she thought, ‘ _if that’s the way they want to play it.’_ She rested her head on the desk in front of her, taking deep calming breaths.

“Mrs K?” There was soft knocking on the other side of the office door.

From her seat behind her desk, head resting on the hard oak top she let out a long exacerbated “What Laura?”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I mean-“

She lifted her head and snapped at the girl through the office door. “I said I am fine! Now go and make sure all the customers are being seen to.” She regretted speaking to Laura like that as soon as the words passed her lips.  She would apologise, just as soon as she had herself under control.

“Mrs K!” Laura was back, this time banging on the door in such a way that Mrs Kipling throught she planned to break it down. “Mrs K!” There was a note of panic to the girls' voice clearly audible between the pounding on the door.

She leaped to her feet and almost rolled across the top of the desk in her rush to reach the office door, wrenching it open to come face to face with not only Laura but the three other girls stood behinds her also. “What? What’s happened?”

The four girls looked at each other before quickly deciding that, as the eldest Laura ought to be the one to pass on the news.

“Mr Shelby’s dead!”

Mrs Kipling stood gawping for a few seconds while the words rang around the room. She tried to speak but only succeeded in letting out a sort of strangled croaking sound, so she tried again, this time succeeding “What?”

All the girl's eyes were wide with excitement, “He was in London.  He was betrayed by a friend.”

“Who shot ‘im.” Sarah added helpfully. Before the other girls joined in adding details to the story that they had garnered from the gossip who had delivered the news.

Mrs Kipling was having trouble organising her thoughts, ‘ _Shit_.  _Shit, shit, shit_.” Was the one incoherent thought she could keep in her mind. ‘ _When was the last time she had seen him?’_ Last week he and John Shelby had almost run over Laura and Kitty as they crossed the street.  _No_  that wasn’t the last time she had seen him.  It had been the previous night! She had seen him striding down the road, coat billowing behind him, his face like thunder.  She had watched him pass through the shop windows and remembered thinking that she was glad he wasn’t looking at her like that. It wasn’t inconceivable that he may have driven to London and been shot in the time between her last sighting of him and this morning’s news, but somehow, she doubted it.  If anyone was going down in a blaze of glory it’s Thomas Shelby. So that left just one question-

“Which Mr Shelby?” She said, interrupting the girl's garbled story.

All four of the girls stopped talking “Eh?”

“ _Which_ Mr Shelby is dead?”

“Arthur!” Kitty said.

Was it relief that she felt?  She supposed it was.  He was an awful human being, but ‘ _needs must’_ as her brother used to say andshe needed Thomas Shelby alive in order for him to be useful and for her and her bakery to remain under the Peaky Blinders protection. Then she felt guilty for thinking so selfishly, a man was dead.

“What was that?”

The girls had all began talking at the same time again and Mrs Kipling quickly realised she had missed another chunk of the story.

“Michael Grey’s been arrested.”

“Michael Grey?” She had no idea who Michael Grey was, or why she should care.

“Polly’s son!”

_That_  is why she should care. Polly had on occasion visited The Bakery, however she had been coming in more often over the last couple months. It made sense now, she had been buying fresh loaves, pies, cakes she was being a mother. Thomas Shelby and Polly Grey ran the Peaky Blinders, if both were distracted? Well Small Heath was ripe for the picking.

Throughout the rest of the morning, the shop was a hub of activity, people coming in for regular purchases and staying to gossip with one another.  There was so many people stood talking in the store that those who wanted to buy items could not fit.

At 1 o’clock there was a flurry of activity as news tricked through the streets of Birmingham.  Arthur Shelby was alive!  But he was in Prison, in London.  The Shelby’s were at war and by all accounts were losing.

The next few weeks passed by quickly.  Rumours spread through the city like wildfire. Each day bringing new and more absurd stories until it got to the point that Mrs Kipling banned any talk of the Shelby’s within the walls of the Bakery. Finn was no longer escorting the girls in a morning, a fact which led to Sarah moping around The Bakery for several days. Their new escorts did not have Finn’s sunny disposition and rather resented being sent out so early each morning.  One positive to losing Finn Shelby as the girl's escort, it meant that The Bakery was no longer a source for gossip and regular business could commence.

The first day of June dawned bright, sunny and warm.  Mrs Kipling was hanging her washing in the yard of the Bakery, cigarette hanging limply from her lips when Sarah burst through the back door from the kitchen.

“They won!

“Who won what Sarah?” She mumbled around her cigarette as she struggled to hang a sheet which had tangled around itself, but Sarah was oblivious, too caught up with the latest scrap of Small Heath gossip.

“The Shelby’s.” She said “they beat the Italians!”

Mrs Kipling narrowed her eyes at Sarah. “And just how would you come about this information?”

“Why Finn told me as he walked with us this morning.” The girl beamed at the older woman.

“Back then is he?”

“Yes. And you’ll never guess what else?”

Mrs Kipling cracked her neck and let out a long-suffering sigh; she would never understand why the people of Small Heath cared whether Thomas, Arthur and John Shelby won a war over London.  The Peaky Blinders terrorised the entire city, but it had been just the same in Manchester. The Peaky Blinders were gangsters but they were their gangsters.  She would not spoil the girls’ mood. “You had better tell me then.”

“That Irish copper?”

That got her attention. Campbell had been into The Bakery once or twice when he had returned to the city, outwardly he had appeared a most genial man. However after his second visit had been altogether disconcerting, Laura had informed her of the stories which surrounded him.  They were not pleasant. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” She raised an eyebrow skeptically, and took a deep drag of her cigarette.  The number of people who had died and suddenly returned to the living over the last month had given her a healthy dose of cynicism.

“Proper dead Mrs K.” Sarah had finally decided to begin readying herself for the day and currently had her mouth full of hairpins.  Once she had finished securing her hair away from her face she continued with her story. “I had it from Finn  _and_  Isiah”

“Paragons of truth and honesty.”

She shrugged “And it’s in this morning’s paper.  Shot at the Epsom Derby.”

Mrs Kipling threw the last of her washing over the line.  “It’s in the paper?”

“Aye.”

“Well Hell has a new resident then.” She put out her cigarette and followed the girl into The Bakery’s kitchen.

June passed by quickly, the weather seemed to be getting warmer by the day, and the smell of the city increased with the temperature. By mid-July a thick haze of smog had descended on every industrial city in the country, some days it was so thick a person could barely see a hand in front of their face.

The Bakery was busy, it was wedding season and it seemed that everyday brought more couples wanting to order more and more extravagant creations. Including one Arthur Shelby and his rather demanding bride to be; Linda Collins.

That had been an interesting meeting, for a woman who held her religion above everything, her list of demands for her cake was by no means small, and neither would the cake be.  When Mrs Kipling had attempted to include Arthur into the decision making process he had simply waved a hand and said “whatever Linda wants.” After that The Baker had cast regular glances over to Arthur, and saw the look of utter devotion that adorned his face never slipped for a moment, she had been forced to hide her small smile behind her hand. Arthur Shelby was in love, and whatever his bride wanted, she would surely get.

 

“Mrs Kipling! Mrs Kipling!”

Mrs Kipling pulled up short as she heard her name shouted at her across the street. It was a balmy early September Sunday morning and the streets were quiet, she turned to see Ada Thorn waving at her and hauling a struggling Karl in her wake. “Oh Ms Thorn.” She waited for the young woman to catch up to her. “I didn’t realise you were in the city. What can I do for you?”

Ada, took her hat off to fan her face, “We’re here for the wedding next week. Arn’t we Karl?” Ada smiled down at the toddler whose chubby red cheeks were flushed from having to run across the street with his mother.  “Are you ready for it?” Ada indicated that Mrs Kipling should continue on her way and that they would join her.

The Baker smiled kindly at Ada, she liked the girl for all that her family was full of demons of varying sorts. “Is this you making conversation or have you been sent by your future sister-in-law?”

Ada rolled her eyes at that. “Oh lord no. I’m not getting involved in anything like that.  Apparently, Tommy is sending a car for you next week?

“Well for the cake, I will be accompanying it of course.”  She took out a cigarette, offering one to Ada, and both women walked in companionable silence for a short while. “In answer to your question, everything is on time and will be ready for next weekend.”

Karl tripped over his feet and almost pulled Ada down on top of him, but she was able to haul him back up and set him down on two unsteady feet. “Careful sausage.” She scolded him mildly before turning back to the Baker. “I’ve bought a new dress, it’s from Paris. You lived in Paris for a while didn’t you?” Mrs Kipling made a vague noise of interest but did not comment further. Ada took this as a signal to the affirmative and to continue, so she did, explaining in great detail about the silk and beading “all done by hand.”

They walked together down several more streets, before Ada realised where they were. “You’re going to the Bull Ring Mrs Kipling?”

“I am.”

“I didn’t take you for a revolutionary.” A conspiratorial smile grew across Ada’s face.

Dropping her cigarette to the floor and extinguishing it with her toe, Mrs Kipling turned on her “since when is demanding a right to have a say in the running of the country of which I live, in which I pay taxes and for which I served in France a revolutionary act?”

Ada’s eyes widened in glee, she had no idea that the quiet baker and former nurse was a Suffragette. Tommy had never mentioned it, which meant that against all the odds it was possible that she knew something that Tommy Shelby did not. “Oh I whole heartedly agree.”  She cast a quick look at her son, he seemed happy enough. “Do you mind if we join you?”

A look not altogether dissimilar to worry passed across her face, and she looked down at Karl who was busily sucking his fingers.  “I’m not sure it would be a good idea Ms Thorn, you have the baby with you.”

“Oh he’s been to plenty of marches and meetings with me in London.  He’ll be fine.”

Nodding slowly as though she had been expecting the answer, “very well then.  But please make sure you stay with me.” The two women walked into the Bullring, there were already several hundred women assembled and more were joining. Many of the women sought her out in order to talk with her regarding various different issues.  Ada stuck close by, watching as the woman wound her way through the crowd, stopping to murmur in a few ears along the way.

Ada and Karl’s presence by her side was noted. Not only by the other women and men on the march, but by the police presence who were by now the gatherings regular escort. 

They walked through the city, winding through the streets, chanting and singing as they went. Ada swung Karl up onto her back and he clung to her like a monkey, his chubby little arms clamped tightly across her chest, and he joined in the singing, making up the words as he went.  By noon the sun was sat high in the pale blue sky, beating down on the assembled mass of people as they arrived at their destination; Birmingham Town Hall. There were several speeches made by prominent members of the Birmingham Suffragette movement that drew rapturous applause and more chanting from those in the audience. The Police remained close by throughout the day, taking note of those they deemed to be threats to decent society or who they thought might incite violence.

Both women walked back to Small Heath together, Karl had switched from his mother’s back to Mrs Kipling’s, deciding that she smelled “yummy.” By the time they had made it back to The Bakery he had lapsed into an almost comatose state, his arms lose around her, his head heavy on her shoulder, the majority of his weight being held by Mrs Kipling arms, which were bent at an odd angle behind her back in order to hold him.

“Here let me take him, he’s getting a bit big to be carried now.” Ada said as she slid him from Mrs Kiplings back to her own arms, who smiled down at the boy.

“I’ve carried bags of flour heavier than him.” It wasn’t too far to garrison lane, but carrying a prone two-year-old in your arms during the heat of the day was no mean feat. “You shouldn’t carry him all the way home on your own, why don’t you come in and have a drink to cool down and you can call home for someone to fetch you both?”

Ada wasn’t going to argue with that, and followed her into the cool interior of the bakery and up the stairs to her flat. Mrs Kipling headed straight to her small kitchenette and poured them both a glass of water from a ceramic jug.

“You can pop him on the bed if you like.”

She handed Ada a glass as she emerged from the bedroom. “Thank you, I’m spitting feathers.” She said taking a large gulp of water and draining the glass. After she had slaked her thirst, Ada followed the Baker back downstairs into the small office where the telephone was. Not wanting to listen in on someone else’s conversation Mrs Kipling left her alone to make her call, but couldn’t help but hear when she heard Ada shouting at however it was she was speaking to.

A few minutes later Ada stomped back into the Mrs Kipling’s small living room. “Bloody men.” She said flopping down onto the settee next to The Baker, smiling her thanks as a second glass of water was placed into her hand and they tap the edge of their glasses together in a mock toast.

“Amen to that.”

The two women sat talking of this and that, both avoiding talking of Ada’s family connections and Mrs Kipling’s past, and yet somehow the time slipped away and both women found themselves relaxing in the company of the other.

Around 30 minutes later there was a surprisingly polite knock on The Bakery’s door.

“They must have sent Skudboat.” Ada said, as she pushed herself to her feet and went to collect her sleeping son. When she reappeared, she had Karl clamped around her torso his head dozing on her shoulder.  “I want to thank you for allowing us to join you today, being in London you can sometimes forget that people all around the country are fighting for the same things.”

She received a non-committal shrug in reply before the Baker disappeared down the stairs in front of her. Ada made her decent more slowly taking care with the child in her arms, she was surprised to see Mrs Kipling waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs and looking rather uneasy.

“I’m sorry, I’m out of practise. I haven’t really had the opportunity to just sit and talk with another woman since I moved here.”

Ada blinked a little taken aback at the unwarranted apology; after all, she had almost forced her company onto the other woman. “There were plenty of women who wanted to speak to you at the march this morning. And also aren’t all your apprentices women?”

“Well yes they are.” She smiled but it looked more like a grimace, “have you actually tried talking to a 15 year old girl?”

Ada started laughing, thinking back not too long ago to when she was 15, “I see your point.” She agreed.

“And yes, there are one or two of the women who I have gotten closer to, but there aren’t many who live in Small Heath and fewer still who would consider coming here. I sometimes go to have tea with them.” Mrs Kipling shook herself off, rolled her shoulders back and smiled brightly “I was just trying to say thank you.”

“My pleasure, like I said, I wasn’t expecting to have such an exciting day.”

The two women made their way to the front of the shop, where Skudboat could been seen waiting, leaning against the bonnet of Tommy’s car. Heading straight for Ada when the Bakery door opened he removed Karl from her arms, placing him into the rear seats of the car with a gentleness that belied his size.

“I hope today won’t cause you too much strife at home?”

Ada waved her off her concerns rolling her eye’s “Oh it’s just Tommy being an arse.  He got back from America late last night, so now everybody  _has_  to tell him everything! Despite the fact that we’ve survived quite well without him for two months.” Ada jumped into the car, pulling the door shut behind her.  “I’ll see you next week at the wedding then.”

“I doubt it, I’ll be in the kitchen making sure no-one goes near my cake.”

**********

At 2am the following morning, the post box closest to Birmingham Town Hall exploded. No one was injured as pieces of twisted metal shrapnel, in the form of a Royal Mail Post Box, burst outwards shattering windows and impaling the walls of the surrounding buildings. Broken glass, charred letters and hundreds of Suffragette flyers littered the street.

An hour and a half later just as The Bakery ovens were being lit ready for the morning’s first batch of breads, the front door disappeared under a flurry of black leather boots. They kicked through the door and windows, destroying the shelves that had not yet been stocked, and display cabinets that held no confections. Splintered wood and glass were all that remained.

The Baker stood with her back to the quickly heating oven, as five men closed around her. The batons fell; once, twice three times and when she was sufficiently subdued, they dragged her unmoving body wantonly through the front of the store, her legs dragging through the broken glass, splinters tearing at her stockings and trails of blood leaving thin trails of red across the once pristine floor.

**

When the four apprentices and Finn arrived at the store 25 minutes later, they stared aghast at the destruction that greeted them.  Laura ran inside, glass crunching underfoot as she hurried through to the kitchen and threw open the door to the office, half expecting to see The Baker sat behind her desk, cigarette held between her lips and shrouded in a cloud of smoke. But she was not there. She turned and saw that the door, which was always locked leading up to the flat above the store was hanging from its hinges, she took the stairs two at a time.

“Mrs K?” Laura did not stop to think that this was the first time she had entered her employer’s home as she walked through the small apartment into the bedroom, the bed had been upset, all the drawers of a walnut dresser were open, with clothes strewn across floor.  Whoever had been here had clearly been looking for something; whether they had found it, she had no idea. Back in the living room the settee had been tipped forwards and the bureau that rested against the wall was badly damaged, one of the doors hanging on by a single hinge the other had been entirely torn off.

Laura stood in the middle of the carnage, not entirely believing what her eyes were seeing. She heard the creak of the stairs and ran back to the entrance of the flat.

“Laura?”

Sarah stood on the bottom step, her face was pale and she was gripping the banister so tightly Laura could see her knuckles from where she stood above her.

“Don’t come up here.” She told the other girl.

“What should we do?  People will be here soon.”

Laura could hear the sound of broken glass scraping on the floor and assumed that Kitty and Elaine were sweeping the floor.

Laura was not used to people looking to her for answers, yes she was the oldest apprentice in The Bakery, but she was the youngest of six children and no one had ever asked her for help. She took a deep breath ‘ _What needs to be done? We need to find out where the bloody hell she is!’_

“OK, OK, we need to find out what happened-“

“-Elaine has already gone to the Police Station.”  Sarah - who was still stood watching her from the bottom of the stairs - interrupted her as she made her way down to join her.

Kitty stopped sweeping when Laura walked into the kitchen, “Did you find out what happened?”

Shaking her head, Laura told them what she had found in the flat “No it looks like whoever was here turned the place over. I don’t know if they took anything or if they found anything.”

“Where is she then?

“Do you think she was taken?”

“Yes.” Elaine, was stood in the doorway, breathing heavily as though she had run the entire way to the Police Station and back again, Laura thought she must have to be back so soon. “She was taken.”

Laura’s head snapped up “What do you mean? What did the police say?”

“They have her. There was an explosion outside the Town ‘All during the night and they’ve arrested her for it.”

Laura’s face dropped her face draining of all colour. “They’ve arrested her?”

Elaine was ringing her hands, as equally at a loss as the other girls. They all knew that Mrs Kipling had an arrangement with the Peaky Blinders, but just what that entailed they had no idea.  _Was it enough for them to try and help?_  “Yes.  Apparently she’s a known and active member of the W.S.P.U.”

“What’s that?” Kitty asked.

Laura groaned, she’d heard her dad talking about the recent resurgence of Women’s Marches, and he wasn’t particularly charitable regarding his descriptions of the women and some men who had attended. “The Women’s Social and Political Union.  She’s a bloody Suffragette.”

 

Finn ran all the way home, when he arrived back at the Watery Lane house, half of his family were already in the kitchen preparing breakfast and arguing, as usual.

Arthur spotted him first “Finn lad! There you are.” He beckoned him over, but when he saw that he was empty handed pressed a hand to his brothers chest. “’Ang on a minute, where’s the bread?”

Finn attempted to explain, but people kept talking over him and interrupting so that Arthur couldn’t have heard his youngest brother even if he’d been trying to, and he wasn’t.

Finn tried talking to Aunt Pol’ instead, but she had one of John’s children hanging off her and was entirely distracted.

Eventually Tommy walked into the kitchen, and Finn made a beeline for him before someone else could get there first.

Tommy watched with some amusement, as Finn manoeuvred around all the bodies in the kitchen slowly making his way towards him.

“Tommy.”

“Finn?”

“The Bakery-“

“What about the Bakery?” Linda was stood behind Tommy, hands on hips and eye’s narrowed. Finn froze, his eye’s moving between his older brother and his soon to be sister-in-law.

“Well it’s, it’s”  

Linda huffed impatiently, “It’s what?”

“It’s been turned over.”

“What?”  Linda and Tommy shouted simultaneously successfully bringing silence to the room.

“And Mrs K, well she’s gone.”

Arthurs' hand landed on Finn's shoulder, startling him. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“She’s left?” Linda was starting to look increasingly frantic. “She’s left and our wedding is less than a week away.”

Ada appeared beside Linda and placed a gentle hand on her arm “I’m sure she hasn’t left, I was only speaking to her yesterday and she was saying how everything would be ready.”

Finn cleared his throat “well I don’t think she’s left voluntarily she-.”

“Will you spit it out!”

“She’s been arrested.”

That statement silenced every adult in the room. All the colour drained from Ada’s face, and Linda stumbled back against the wall and had to be helped by Arthur into a seat.

Tommy almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation. “The Baker? The Baker has been arrested?”

“What bloody for?” Arthur roared while rubbing calming circles on his fiancés back.

“For blowing up a post box.”

“Bloody women!”

Ada stepped forward, “And what proof do they have that she was responsible?”

Finn blinked gormlessly at his sister for a second, this was far too early to have to deal with serious issues. “I dunno, I left when I found out she’d been arrested for arson.  Thought you might want to know, all thing’s considered.” He nodded his head at Linda who was currently having a cup of strong tea put in front of her by Esme.

Ada turned on Tommy. “You have to do something.”

“Why do I?” He asked looking entirely unperturbed about the news, in fact, the Baker being arrested might suit him perfectly, he still didn’t trust her.

“Because she’s innocent!”

“How do you know she’s innocent?”

Ada huffed in frustration, glaring at her brother incredulously “I was with her all day yesterday; don’t you think I might have noticed if she was going about planting bombs?” she finished.

Tommy glanced around the kitchen, his eyes landing on Arthur as he continued to try to comfort Linda. He turned and made his way towards his office pulling out a cigarette along the way.   _Bloody woman is nothing but trouble._  He thought to himself as he closed the office door.

Five minutes later Tommy is back in the kitchen with every adult eye turned on him. “She was seen with a known communist agitator.” He said deliberately to Ada, “A person who is known to the authorities for being vocally in favour of the use of violence.”

Ada didn’t say anything for a few seconds while she processed his words, “you mean it’s my fault?  They targeted her because they saw me with her yesterday?”

“Yes.” Tommy said bluntly. “Well Arthur you had better find another baker for your cake.”

Polly scoffed at him. “Do you really think that another baker will be able to have everything ready in less than a week?”

Arthur straightened up and glared at his Aunt, “They will if they enjoy using their eyes.”

Linda took hold of his wrist “No Arthur, that’s not the answer.”

“Then what?” He looked up but instead of seeing Tommy, Ada was in front of him Polly beside her.

“Get her out.” Ada said pressing the advantage Linda had handed her, Arthur looked over to Tommy who was leaning back against the wall eating a sausage that one of his nephews had handed to him.

Polly turned to face Tommy, “Do you want your Brother’s wedding ruined?”

“No cake is not the end of the world.”

“No? “

“No it isn’t” He said popping the last mouthful of sausage into his mouth.

“She helped me.” Finn slapped a hand over his mouth.  He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and he really didn’t like the looks being given to him by all three of his brothers.

John laughing said, “yeah she’s certainly helping to fatten you up.”

Tommy smirked in response, but Arthur who could see no other way out nodded at him, encouragingly.

So Finn pressed on “She helped me that night I was jumped.” Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed, she _had_ helped his youngest brother.  _‘And, she helped me as well’_ he thought to himself, thinking back to her re-wrapping his ribs when they were together in his office.

Ada sensing a shift in the room joined Aunt Polly staring down Tommy. It would do no use to push him, but she was quite happy to wait.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The door to the cell swung open rasping against the floor loudly, a thin sliver of light brightened the room but the prison warden stood in the doorway blocking the majority of light from entering the small dark and dank room. “Get up.”

 

Two eyes’s blinked open, shining out of the darkness and a voice gave a quiet and feeble sounding “Fuck you.”

 

The prison warden sighed a long-suffering sound. “Very well. Pick her up.”

 

Two sets of hands took hold of the woman under the arms, dragging her through the door and turning left down a hall to a bare room with a single chair.  When the woman saw it, she tried to plant her feet onto the floor but they could gain no traction, and she continued to be dragged forward. So she began to struggle more and more frantically against her captors; she was not as weak as they believed. Lashing out with her feet and twisting her body away, she succeeded in breaking the hold of one of her gaolers and swinging the now free arm at the other who was waiting for it and simply let go, and the woman carried by her own momentum fell face first onto the floor. She lay there for a moment, panting heavily before the hands were back and pulling her along the floor and towards the chair.

 

The rubber feeding tube is four feet long.  The prisoner is restrained during the procedure; wrists and ankles strapped tightly to the chair but the head is left loose, and so she shakes it, violently snapping her teeth as the doctor came closer to insert the feeding tube. She receives a hard slap for her troubles, and an arm snakes around her head restraining her and hands gripping her jaw attempt to pry apart her mouth.  She grinds her teeth together hard so that her jaw aches with the effort but they cannot praise her teeth apart. They hit her, trying to force her mouth open, but while her eyes water her jaw, remains firmly closed.  

 

The tube is instead inserted into the ‘prisoners’ nose.  Her mouth opens now, a strangled noise escapes and she gags as the tube passes down her throat to the stomach, a mixture of eggs and milk are poured down the tube.  This mixture is instantly and violently ejected from the body, a concoction of egg, milk, blood and stomach bile, exploding from mouth and nose. 

The restraints are released following the feeding, and she is again manhandled back to her small dark cell. The injury of the complete loss of body autonomy is insulted further when she requests water to wash with and is refused, instead, she is left with the hardening vomit, blood and spit covering her face, clothing, and matting in her hair.

Alone in the dark and quiet of the cell, she does not try to stop the tears from falling, she weeps into the flea-ridden mattress helpless to stop the sobs wracking through her body. When her supply of tears is finally exhausted she is lying face down gasping for air, she knows that they will be back in a few hours.

 Being so absorbed in her own misery she has failed to notice the noise at first but as her breaths even out she hears a sound that causes her heart to soar in her chest. Slowly swinging her feet off the bed and onto the frigid stone floor, she makes her way to the cells small window. It is set too high into the wall for her to see from, but as she leans against the bricks the sound seems louder and she stays there listening to the chanting and singing voices that trickle into her bleak surroundings like parasites of hopefulness.

The wardens come to the cell twice more before nightfall.  Both times, she attempts to resist, but they surround her and quickly have her strapped into the chair.  On the third feeding of the fourth day she cannot stop them and they create a small gap between her teeth and are able to insert a steel gag, the instrument cuts into the flesh of her gums, forcing its way in, gradually prising her jaw apart as they turn a screw. Still, she tries to resist against the unrelenting steel, her breaths come in short gasps, and someone in the room is making a low keening sound.  The pipe is inserted down her throat and the mixture is poured once again. She struggles during the entire ordeal; her world shrinks to this cell, in this chair fighting this moment. 

A voice cuts into her conscious. “That’s all.” And the tube is pulled from her throat, causing her to vomit everything that they had just forced into her body.

She hangs limply in the chair as they free her from the restraints, and as they pull her to her feet a strangled gurgling noise erupts from within her, it takes the wardens a moment to realise they are hearing a dry heaving laughter and the doctors believe that she is losing her mind. She is not losing her mind; and it is not hysteria causing her laughter but hope, for she can still hear the voices outside the prison.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, she sleeps fitfully through the night.  Eventually, she gives up on sleep and tries to sings to herself in the darkness, her voice is painful and rough and causes the tears to fall again.  When morning dawns she hears the sound of keys from outside her door, and as the door rasps open she cannot help the groan that escapes her.

 

“Up you get now.”

 

“Fu-“ she coughs painfully. “Fuck off.”

 

“OK.”

 

The door shuts again.  It is not long before it opens once more and four wardens enter and lift her from the bed and carry her out of the cell, but they do not turn left, this time they turn right and carry her to a tiled room, with a drain at its centre. They drop her onto the cold tiled floor and she is briefly left alone in the room, but they return as prison wardens are want to do, carrying buckets in both hands. There is a woman with them and she quickly strips her soiled clothes away before leaving once again. She is shivering, naked on the tiled surface when the first bucket is emptied over her.  She cries out in shock as the cold water hits, senses overwhelmed with the sensation, she doesn’t have time to gather herself before the second is emptied over her head, and then a third and a fourth.

 

Someone, she has no idea who is strong-arming her into a clean shift.  She is no longer in the tiled room but it is no warmer and she is still wet from her impromptu shower so whoever is dressing her is struggling to pull the clothes over her damp skin.

 

“What-?”

 

“Oh you’re awake are you? Good, help me get these clothes on you.” Together they get the clothes on, but her wet hair begins to soak them through immediately.  She is led through another hallway and through a door to a courtyard, across the courtyard is a gate, which is opened, and she is unceremoniously shoved through it. Where a car is waiting.

 

It is not dawn yet, and the sun has not yet fully risen but the dawn is quickly approaching.

 

A door on the car opens and a petite figure emerges into the street and speaks with a kind voice.  “Come on get in you’ll catch your death of cold.” She allows herself to be coaxed forward and reaches out with a shaking hand, though whether it is from cold or nerves she does not yet know, she grips the car door and climbs into the vehicle where a blanket is immediately wrapped around her. She sits huddled under the warm woolen shroud, unaware and indifferent to her final destination.

 

After a short journey the car comes to a halt, the door is opened and she is asked to leave being led into a brightly lit building that hurts her eyes, so she shields them and avoids looking at her surroundings.  Eventually, they appear to arrive at the intended destination. A gentle hand on her back prompts her to enter a room that is softly lit, she looks about but nothing is making sense.

 

“Where-?” she croaks.

 

“You’re at the Midland hotel.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We thought it would be easier.” The kind voice says, “Now let’s get you out of those wet clothes and into something a little warmer.” Before her is a luxurious bathroom, tastefully decorated and with fully integrated indoor plumbing; piped hot water she hasn’t seen this since before she left Paris. The bath is already full and giving off clouds of steam and making the air in the room thick and warm; grateful for the warmth she pulls in a lungful.

 

Gentle hands help her to remove her clothing, her eyes keep returning to the woman helping her but she cannot place her face, and her brain does not seem to want to co-operate. She knows that she knows her though, and allows herself to be helped from the damp and scratchy clothing the prison forced her into during her hasty exit. Once the clothes are been removed and she is once again naked, the woman helps her into the bath and she sinks below the scolding water without a second thought.

 

Now though when she surfaces her mother is not waiting for her, she is alone. Although she can hear the low murmur of voice from behind the closed bathroom door and a small pile of fresh clothing has been left on a chair for her.

 

A woman in her late 30’s is sat in a comfortable chair sipping tea, “Mrs Thorne thank you for this.  But we could easily have taken her to one of our own homes and saved you the expense.”

 

Ada gives a tight-lipped smile to the woman across from her, “It’s no trouble at all, and when it comes to a friend’s wellbeing what’s a little expense?”

 

They sit in silence, listening to the small sounds coming from the bathroom and each watching the other over the top of their teacups. Half an hour of tense silence passes in this way before the bathroom doorknob begins to twist and a gust of hot, steamy air escapes as the door opens and both women jumped to their feet speaking over each other.

 

“Do you feel any better?”

 

“Can we get you anything?”

 

She feels much more like herself now she has managed to properly wash the last five days from her hair and skin, but now there are two women - whose names she still cannot remember – staring at her and it makes her want to retreat back into the sanctuary of the warm bathroom.

 

“I-“ her eyes glanced about the room, never settling on any one thing for long, she looks like a cornered animal. 

 

Ada recognises the look, she had seen it on all three of her older brothers faces when they had first returned from The War. “It’s OK. Perhaps you’d just like to get some sleep?” she asks stepping slowly towards her, hands held up in to show she means no harm.

 

She took a step backward, “yes, yes, I think that-“

 

“This way love.” Ada steered her to another room that holds a large bed and she climbed in without a second glance at Ada, burrowing beneath the rich sheets she disappears from view.  Ada leaves her to her sleep, returning to the room where she had left the suffragette sipping tea.

 

“She’s asleep.”

 

“Already?”

 

Ada did not return to her seat, instead she walked around the room until she was stood beside the door. “Well I imagine she hasn’t had much recently.” She opened the door “And I myself am rather tired it’s been a long night and it will be a longer day, so if you don’t mind?”

 

The other woman placed her teacup back onto the saucer she stood up brushing herself off she turned to leave. “Ms. Thorne.”  They shook hands as she left and Ada closed the door quietly behind her.

 

Ada settled herself onto the sofa in the main room of the suite, she would let her guest have the bed.  She cast a quick look out of the window, the sky was lightening and it would not be long until dawn, but she needed some sleep if she was going to make it through the next three days.

 

The sun was fully up when Ada awoke, but it was not that, that had disturbed her.  She could hear a noise, a whimpering scared sound. Ada was immediately on her feet and heading towards the bedroom. As the door swung open she came face to face with an apparition stood hand outstretched as though she to had been reaching for the door, the sheets wrapped in a tangled mess around her, her curly hair was sticking out in all directions and in the harsh light of day the bruises around her wrists and neck were plainly visible. She knew from helping her into the bath in the night that her body was a masterpiece of black, blue and yellow.

 

“Ada?”

 

Hearing her speak her name Ada could not help but smile at her, and when she wrapped her arm’s around her she felt her stiffen beneath her touch but she did not let go, not right away anyway.

 

“Will you please tell me where I am?” the other woman mumbled into Ada’s shoulder.

 

“You’re at the Midland Hotel, in my suite,” Ada said when she eventually pulled away from her.

 

“Why am I at the Midland Hotel in your suite?” she asked, walking past Ada and into the sitting room.  She sat in a leather armchair, sheets still wrapped around her.

 

“We didn’t think you should be alone when you were released, you were delirious.”

 

“When I was released.” She said quietly to herself, “When I was released?”

 

“Another Suffragette, who I believe you’re acquainted with, Mrs Eleanor Garner. We brought you here last night.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why were _you_ there when they released me?” She pulled her homemade cocoon tighter around her shoulders.  “We barely know each other.”

 

Ada was not sure that this was entirely the correct moment to tell her all of the particulars, but she didn’t appear to have any options. “Because I had Tommy get you out.”

 

Ada watched the woman with concern as her hands clenched into tight fists, her skin was so pale she thought she could see the bone showing beneath the skin.  She rocked forward until her head was resting on her knees, her entire face crumpled as though she were in agony. 

 

She wanted to scream, and rage and throw things; she was in Thomas Shelby’s debt! A thought occurred to her that she was handling the revelation of being indebted to the most dangerous man in Birmingham far worse than she handled her incarceration. “Why would he bother getting a baker released from prison?” she asked through gritted teeth.

 

“Because I asked him to.”

 

“Why?”

 

Ada looked at her perplexed for several seconds then she leant forward and slammed her hands on the table that still held the previous night’s teapot.  “Because it was my fault that you were targeted in the first place!” she shouted, “If I hadn’t insisted on joining you at the march, they wouldn’t have noticed you, you wouldn’t have been picked up and you wouldn’t have spent the last four days in gaol.”

 

Ada watched as the woman opposite her slowly sat back in her chair, her eyes were half closed but Ada knew she was watching her, she could feel her eyes on her. She didn’t speak for several minutes and when she did it was to ask; “Do you have any cigarettes?”

 

Ada went to fetch them both a cigarette and as she walked across the room the Bakers eyes followed her. Handing her the cigarette and lighting it Ada pretended she did not notice her shaking hands.

 

They sat in silence for the few minutes it took them to finish their cigarettes.

 

There was a staccato knock on the door of the room, which Ada jumped up to open.

 

Laura’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Mrs Thorne!”

 

“Why is Laura here?”

 

The knocking continued, and this time Elaine’s voice joined Laura’s “Mrs Thorne?”

 

“Why is Elaine here?”

 

“They’re here to help you,” Ada said before she opened the door to all four Bakers apprentices, and all hell broke loose.

 

The baker stood leaning against the rough-hewn bricks of the hotel, she could still feel a soft warmth of the late summer sunshine radiating from deep within them. The chatter of voices was clear through the kitchen door that she had propped open, and a weak light filtered from it into the alleyway where she stood. But she paid little attention to what was happening inside, instead placing a cigarette between her lips, inhaling deeply and holding the breath for a beat before slowly releasing it, the smoke curled in wisps from her nostrils as though inside of her slept a dragon.

She closed her eyes allowing her thoughts to drift back to that morning.

 

 

_All of her girls had barged into the hotel room; they had taken one look at her as she sat shrouded in the cotton bedsheet with bruises clearly visible on every exposed area of skin and promptly burst into tears._

_She and Ada were eventually able to calm them down, and they then went on to tell her that they had prepared everything that she would need to complete the wedding cake for the following day._

_She had argued with them, telling them that there was no way in hell, she could make a wedding cake, she had just been released from prison for goodness sake!_

_Ada had been very understanding and had said ‘of course she shouldn’t make the cake as she was in a much too fragile state of mind at the moment.’_

_That had gotten her dander up, as Ada had known it would, and she thought that that actually she might like to see the kitchens._

 

 

She opened her eyes blinking a few times before turning her gaze upwards to the stars, she watched as more and more tiny specks of light began to shine in the dark and hazy sky.  Her mind wandered more aimlessly as she gazed up, occasionally a thought would fight its way to the forefront, _“How had it come to this?”_   quickly replaced by “ _Christ I’m tired.”_ and  _“How am I going to get out of this?”_   She did not try to resist them, that would just make them all the more insistent, she acknowledged their presence, even pondered them for a brief time before releasing them into the ether. _“Everybody struggles under the weight of their own negativity”_ her mother had told her, _“what matters is that you don’t let it crush you_ ”, and she was determined not to allow them to crush her, she had never done it before and would not do it now.

Her seclusion was short lived as a body blocked the light filtering from within the kitchen and a dark figure stepped out into her alleyway lighting a cigarette of his own.  They stood in companionable silence for a moment smoke slowing filling the space around their heads.

 “Your girls seem anxious.”

 She gave a small shrug before answering with a simple “They are young.”

“You think everything will be ready for the wedding?”

She dropped the cigarette onto the cobbles grinding the heel of her shoe down onto it.  “The cake will be ready, that is my only concern.” She turned to enter the kitchen but an arm blocked the doorway.

She knew she should be thanking him for wrangling her release after a mere five days in prison, it could have been much longer.  But she was still far too angry and tired to play by social rules so she asked bluntly, “Can I help you with something Mr Shelby?” as she turned to face him the light from the kitchen door threw her face into sharp contrast highlights the bruises adorning her face and neck. He did not show any kind of reaction to the evidence of violence on display, taking another long drag of the cigarette.

 “I was curious as to why your husband did not try to garner your release from police custody?”

 She swallowed then flinched slightly as her raw throat protested to the use. “My Hus-“

“Mr Kipling.” He clarified, watching her with shrewd eyes half hidden by the peak of his cap.

She started to laugh, it was a dry painful sound clearly causing her some discomfort as tears sprang into her eyes, she cuffed them away before fixing her eyes on his. She was in no mood for subterfuge this evening, and anyway she was almost certain he already knew the truth, a point she made clear when she answered him.  “You know as well as I Mr Shelby, that Mr E. Kipling does not exist.”

 Tommy nodded slowly she had confirmed his suspicions.  “And how did you-“

“Counterfeits. You should know as well as anyone that The War threw people from all walks of life together.  I just happened to use some of my new friends to my own benefit.”

It was Tommy’s turned to laugh, although his was not painful to listen to as The Bakers had been.  Tommy’s laugh startled her slightly; she had not expected to hear such a sound from the ever-serious Thomas Shelby, especially not ringing out in a dingy alleyway.  “Your family is full of surprises Mrs McKinnon.”

 She raised an eyebrow at his rapid reversion to her actual married name.  If she admitted it to herself she had missed hearing the name said aloud, she felt that hearing it said aloud kept a little of her James with her. “You won’t be harassing my family any further I hope, now that you’ve got what you wanted?”

 “Your family won’t be harassed no.”

The cake was ready in time. She and her girls worked all night and just as the suns light broke the horizon, they placed the finishing touches to their creation.

 A Shelby Company Car dropped each of the girls off at their homes before making its way to The Bakery; she sat in the back seat of the car a growing sense of dread overwhelming her, meanwhile, the car continued to trundle through the quiet Birmingham streets.

 She barely waited for the vehicle to stop before she was out onto the street.  Someone had boarded the windows, which only confirmed what her fragmented memories had already told her, the bakery that she had poured her blood sweat and tears into was gone, destroyed under the black boots of the Birmingham Constabulary. 

She dropped back onto her haunches, and buried her head in her arms, finally succumbing the wave of despair and allowing it to envelop her.  So consumed was she by her misery, that she did not notice when the door of the Bakery opened, she did not hear the small bell ring out announcing that she was no longer alone on the pavement. She did feel a pair of strong hands lift her to her feet and arms engulf her, holding her tightly against a broad chest as the sobs she could not control wracked through her body.  She smelled a scent she had not smelled in so long that for a moment she did not recognise it until she heard a word whispered reverently into her hair.

“Sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the state this chapter is in. I have tried posting it multiple times over the last couple of months and it keeps freezing on me if I spend too much time editing it on the page so I've decided to post it and edit after.
> 
> Please please leave a comment.  
> I really want to know how you think I did with this one, as it's the first time I've ever written anything even remotely related to the issues in this chapter.


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